Martha ran in to see what her mother wanted.  In a little while she came back, and, as she entered the kitchen, she could not help remarking the strange earnestness with which the man looked at her.

Presently, Mrs. Martin herself came in.  She was surprised at seeing the miserable looking object who had intruded himself upon them at a time that seemed so inopportune.

“Who is that, Martha?” she asked in a low voice, aside.

“I don’t know,” was answered in the same low tone—­not so low, however, as to be inaudible to the quick ears of the stranger.

“What is he doing here?”

“He asked me if I would let him rest for a little while; and I couldn’t say no.”

“He looks sick; and he must be very poor.”

“Yes, poor, indeed!” returned Mrs. Martin with a sigh; a thought of her own poor wanderer crossing her mind.  This thought caused her to turn to the man and say to him,

“Have you been sick, my friend?”

The man who had been looking at her intently from the moment that she entered the room, now turned his face partly away as he replied—­

“Yes.  I’ve been sick for a number of days, but I am better now.”

“You look very poor.”

“I am poor—­poor indeed!”

“You do not belong to these parts?”

“I do not deserve to,” replied the man, low and evasively.

“Where do your friends live?”

“I don’t know that I have any friends,” said the man.  There was a slight tremor in his voice, that thrilled, answeringly, a chord in the heart of his questioner.

“No friends!”

“There still live those who were once my friends.”

“And why not your friends now?”

The man shook his head, sadly.

“I have proved myself unworthy, and, doubtless, they have long since cast me forth from their regard.”

“Then you have no mother,” said Mrs. Martin, quickly.  “A mother’s love cannot die.”

“I have a mother, and I have sisters,” replied the man, after a pause.  “Feel kindly towards me for their sakes.  I have wandered long; but I am repentant; and, now returning to my old home, I seek—­”

The voice that had been low and unsteady at the beginning, sunk sobbing into silence, and the stranger’s head drooped upon his bosom.  At that moment, Mr. Martin entered, and seeing the man, he exclaimed—­

“Who in the world is this?”

“William?” fell half joyfully, half in doubting inquiry, from the mother’s lips.

“My mother!” ejaculated the stranger, starting forward, and falling into her open arms.

“William—­William!” said Mr. Martin.  “Oh! no!  It cannot be!”

“It is!  Yes!  It is my poor, poor boy!” replied the mother, disengaging herself from his clasping arms, and pushing him off so that she could get a full view of his face.  “Oh!  William!  My son! my son!” And again she hugged him wildly to her bosom.